The Waves Rush in on Every Side
by Aisling-Siobhan
Summary: [Tony/Loki] They weren't all that close yet, but talking to one another helped. So they continued to talk, when no one else would acknowledge him, and Loki used Tony as a rock, rising out of the stormy sea and he crouch upon it, clung to it, and Tony kept the waves from beating him under.


Ah, I need to stop writing one shot and go update Redemption Songs or Through the Looking Glass.

"The Waves Rush In On Every Side"

**Disclaimer: **The Avengers, Tony, Loki, etc belong to Marvel, Stan Lee, et co. I make no money from this and own nothing, don't sue.

**Summary: **[Tony/Loki] They weren't all that close yet, but talking to one another helped. So they continued to talk, when no one else would acknowledge him, and Loki used Tony as a rock, rising out of the stormy sea and he crouch upon it, clung to it, and Tony kept the waves from beating him under.

**Warnings: **Slash. Loki/Tony. Post-Avengers. Language. Angst. AU. FrostIron. Tumblr prompt. Feels.

**Rating: **PG-15?

**A/N**: Title is taken from the poem: Inchcape Rock, by Robert Southey. This was written for Hoppspindel and this post: ( .com(/)post(/)41160567518)

_XXX_

**Words: ** 1,818

**Chapter 1**

Loki had expected many things to happen upon his return to Asgard, and he would need all of the fingers on the hands on all of his clones to list them all because Odin's wrath was unmerciful and Loki had already lived through the majority of his _lessons._ What had happened, in comparison, was surprisingly tame.

He was to follow Thor around on Midgard, with his powers bound and his strength reduced to that of a mortal man, in the wake of the destruction Loki's army had wrought. Thor, the hero, the Golden Son, who was already striving to fix the broken city and its broken people, rummaging like vultures through the carcass of New York. And Loki would trail in his shadow, again, humiliated and chained and _forced_ to act like he gave a shit about the suffering of others.

His first day back on Midgard started with him biting through his tongue, trying not to scream in the faces of half of the Avengers and Director Fury; hands clenched at his sides to keep them from reaching out to ineffectually strangle the mortals (for he was mortal now too, in body, and his grip was not what it once was). It had gone from bad to worse: people spat at him in the streets, and Thor had only smiled and waved and thanked them for their forgiveness. He had given loud speeches whenever someone stopped to stare and Loki had waited behind him again - always behind, always following - with a scowl souring his face and Thor's words his disposition, until someone had tried to shoot him.

His first day had ended, laid up in bed with a bullet wound stitched and disinfected on his left arm. Tony Stark took care of him, because Loki had tried to hide his fear of the Hulk and failed terribly, so Bruce had been kept out of the room. For both of their sakes. After all, the Hulk wasn't too fond of the God either, now punier than before.

Even Thor had deserted him. The group had taken over the kitchen, and later the living room, descending upon pizza and beer and television like a plague of locusts, devouring and destroying all in their paths in scant seconds, and Loki fought down the bitterness and jealous that bubbled in his gut. He had not been invited, not even by Thor - not even as a false platitude. He had expected it of course, but it did not hurt any less once he could hear them, laughing and talking, and generally having a good time while he was left alone in the dark and in pain. Forgotten.

Perhaps, he thought, this was to be his true punishment? Another lifetime of watching Thor live his life with Loki as his shackle, chained and unable to escape his own life because he was forever destined to live as a shade. Nothing more than a burdensome memory, the darkness that sought to blot out Thor's light, his family's, his friends had he had any. But Tony Stark had come to him with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses held precariously between two fingers on his other hand. The clinking of the glasses pulled him out of his thoughts.

"What?" He had snapped, loathing himself and all those around him in equal parts.

"You looked like you needed a drink." Tony nodded towards the corner of the room, where Clint had pointed when Loki had first been left in here, gleefully explaining about the camera that was watching his every move. "Here," the mortal added softly while handing over a glass.

As Loki drank, he listened. And as Tony drank he began to talk. First, about Loki and his punishment and he asked about Asgard often, despite Loki's rather furious responses to those questions. But there was nothing the God could do without his magic or his strength to make Stark leave. Later, when the wound became infected and Loki was left bedridden for a week while all of the others left the Tower to help the less fortunate citizens of New York (never mind Loki, alone and hungry and scared) Stark had stayed with him then; begged off of clean up duty because he had to "work". He did work, Loki supposed, but he drank at the same time, clicking away on a StarkPad while curled up in the chair beside Loki's bed. They drank and they talked, and as the days passed and Loki grew strong enough to use his arm and dress himself without the aid of machines or Stark (which hadn't been as unbearable as he had thought it would be when Stark first had offered; sitting for a while first and watching Loki struggle with a smirk on his lips), they found themselves lying in the living room instead of in bed.

The living room had been fixed up since the invasion. There was a couch now, semicircular and taking up most of the space where Loki had once let his face remodel the ground. It was soft and warm, with a sheep skin cover and a fur blanket thrown over it, and Loki loved to lie across it on his back with a wine glass on the back of the couch above him and one arm under his head. The other arm rested against his stomach, occasionally reaching up to squeeze Tony's hand which hung down towards him from where Tony would always lie across the back of the sofa looking down at him with interested brown eyes.

They would talk like that, Loki finally telling stories of Asgard, but from _before _when things were good and he could almost remember being happy, and when he began to slip into melancholy or frightened or furious Tony would reach down and he would reach up and their fingers would brush, grip tight after a second and hold on: an anchor, to keep Loki grounded through the roughest of waves that tried to beat him against the world, and Tony kept him grounded, not happy, no, but no longer was there rage as there had been. No longer did Loki seek to burn the world around him and watch it happen with a smile on his face. Now, he was content, and he spoke of Frigga and how much he missed her, of Thor and the time they dressed as women to recover his stolen hammer, of the time he cut Sif's hair and his punishment (and here Tony would hold his hand, humming lightly to drown out the memories of his screams and Loki's fingers would tighten so much so that if he were still Godly all round he would have broken Tony's hand, but still the mortal did not let go). Eventually Loki ran out of stories to tell, after a month of secretly meeting, of Tony lying about how badly Loki was healing and no one had cared to check for themselves except Thor, who would rather Loki stay inside and safe than outside and in danger of being shot again.

So he asked, instead, "What is that in your chest?"

"My heart," Tony offered with a wink, watching with a grin as Loki's eyes widened in surprise first and then amusement.

"Will you tell me about it?"

Loki had told him so much of himself, so much that he had not told to anyone in such a long time, some not even to Thor, of elves and Thanos and others who had befriended him and hurt him in the end too. So Tony talked in return, the first story he told since their first drink five weeks ago, and Loki listened in rapt fascination, going as far as to sit up on the sofa so that he was leaning down over the still horizontal Tony. When Tony had fallen silent, no more words needing to be shared, and the pain of it all written clearly across his pale face, Loki reached out a hand to hold onto Tony's own and the other set down his wine glass and pressed against the light of the arc reactor.

"We are two peas in a pod, it seems," Loki whispered, more to himself really. But Tony snorted in reply, offering as much of a shrug as he could while still lying on his side. "We both hurt and are hurt and yet here you are, doing good, caring, even for me, and I..." He trailed off, frowning darkly.

"Let me tell you something I heard in a film once, Loki. Now, repeat after me: I will never be good and that's not bad. There's no one I'd rather be than me."

"There's no one I'd rather be," Loki whispered, his eyes fixed on Tony's mouth as it moved to repeat the words at the same time, "than me."

The mortal grinned at him. "You haven't hurt anyone in weeks. I think that counts in your favor. You didn't even throw a glass at me and that's something that happens quite a lot actually, so kudos to you, Rudolph."

"May I have it?" He took another drink from his glass, needing the Dutch courage, using it as another anchor and a crutch to hold him up if Tony were to be ripped out from under him. "Your heart, may I have it?" His wine glass was dropped onto the stone floor and the hand was over the arc reactor again, and despite Tony's tensing up the man didn't pull away. Loki didn't try and take the reactor though, he just held his hand there, the thumb rubbing lightly across his chest through the fabric and it struck Tony like lightning, the realization of what Loki really wanted to take. Not the arc reactor, not his metal heart, but his _heart_.

So Tony lent forward, craning his neck up so that his lips could meet Loki's, soft and hesitant at first with their fingers still entwined. They kissed, and for the first time in a long time Loki could remember what happiness felt like. It felt like Tony's lips pressed against his own, wet and warm and tasting of coconuts; it felt like the hum of the arc reactor against the palm of his hand, its warmth and its light and the buzz that surrounded it; it felt like the hand Tony knotted in his hair to pull his head down closer, his lips in tighter, tight and steady and grounding, anchoring him in place, like a rock rising above the roaring waves where Loki could wait out the storm and be safe and dry and the world could not crush him up there; and Tony's other hand in his, palm sweaty and fingers linked, his nails lightly biting into Loki's knuckles and that was ok because Loki held on just as tightly in return.

**The End**

The line Tony gives is from Wreck It Ralph, which is most certainly worth going to see if it's still in cinemas where you live.

Thanks for reading. Next, I hope: Redemption Songs.


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